Today, on the 5th day of a cold you have had, I have spent 70% of the day holding you. You are two and half. I held you today more than I held you any day you were a newborn. You have a snuggling method. First, you wrap yourself in a burrito in your dad's old baby blanket and then you waddle to find me. I am of course always trying to desperately get something household related done and half the time I bump into you walking slowly down the hall, your legs bound by the blanket. You look up. "Snuggle me, mama." Never has there been a request harder to turn down than this. Even though I should fold laundry. Even though I should start dinner. Even though I should say no, I say yes.
This evening, your sister paraded around the backyard in the fading sun, carrying slugs to and from the trees in her fearless way and I held you on your back in my arms like a baby. You reached up and put your hand on my cheek and I saw the scene reflected in your blue & gold eye. I could see the sky, a breathless pink. I saw the treetops, swaying. I saw your tiny hand on my cheek and my own smile. These tiny moments. This is motherhood.